The Great Stories
by Maureen Painted Green
Summary: He's in awe - of the depths of her strength, her heart, and her hotness - and the fact that she's not running anymore. "Always" Post-ep Spoilers through 4x23


_**A/N: **__After that finale, well – I couldn't not write. A nod to what happened and what didn't – in my imaging of this story, Kate eventually goes back to being a cop, and the two of them go back to doing what they've always done best – challenging each other, pushing each other, supporting each other – being partners. Always._

If it ends in fire – if she takes a bullet to the chest in a year, like she always thought she would, he will always remember this night. It will play on loop in his mind every day for the rest of his life. Because even if she's taken from him too soon, even if 'always' fails him, if he finds himself writing elegies instead of murder mysteries, because the darkness follows her – and now him – he will never regret this night. Because regardless of what happens from now on, she's in his arms now, giving as good as she gets, pleading with him to love her.

She's his – always – for as long as that can be. And he knows that she's damned, but even if he ends up holding her hand five years from now as she takes her dying breath – there will have been a time, however brief, when he held an extraordinary woman in his arms, listening to her heartbeat, alive and real, despite the circumstance, despite their demons.

He's a writer, but until now, he's never understood. And if they ever take her from him – if his arms aren't big enough to stave off all those who want to hurt her, he knows he will spend the rest of his life searching for the words to tell their story.

He'll write the story of a beautiful homicide detective haunted by the search for her mother's killer. He'll write the parts the newspapers won't get right, how she's leather and lace, motorcycles and curls, how she smells like cherries and tastes like coffee. Words will fail him as he looks for the right ones to describe her boundless smile, her laugh, the fire in her eyes when she looks at him _like that._ How adorable it is when she's stalking through the loft, flinging possessions aside, yelling at him for being unhelpful because all he can do is watch in awe as she turns over couch cushions hunting for her shoes. How he's sure that 40 years from now, she'll still be able to stop his heart with her smile.

He'll write about the demons that still plague her, how she wakes him sometimes in the middle of the night, screaming, crying, because for a moment she was back on the edge of that building, dying alone with her regrets. How he doesn't speak when this happens, just gathers her up in his arms, rubbing circles on her back as her tears flow, whispering into her hair, promising that he was there – that he will be there – to catch her. Always. Because it won't be all about the horrors that have plagued her – she's more than her mother's murder, and he thinks she's finally starting to see it. He'll write reverently about the wonder of waking up with her head on his shoulder, hands splayed across his broad chest, the sleepy noise she makes as she snuggles closer. How he had to pinch himself for the first month, still convinced he was dreaming.

The first time they talk about a life together, beyond what they have. He goes to sleep that night grinning, dreaming of a little girl with chestnut locks and bright blue eyes. She'll be as stubborn as her mother, he imagines, and he knows she'll have him wrapped around his finger from the day she's born. It's several years before they get there, but someday – _someday, Castle_ – she whispers to him from her place on his chest, they do.

He never forgets the first time she tells him. They're in the middle of the supermarket, and she won't let him pay for his own groceries (_"I've been practically living with you for a month, Castle! The least I can do is buy a few groceries!")_. He fights back because she's stubborn and this is silly, and why can't she just let him take care of her.

"Damnit, Castle, I love you!", she barks out, not realizing. He looks at her in shock and awe, his hands finding their way to her waist of their own accord. She realizes what she's said, and her tone softens. She meets his gaze, slender fingers tracing the lines of his face.

"I do, you know," it's almost a whisper. "I do love you, Castle."

She ends up buying the groceries. He's too happy to care.

A whole chapter will be devoted to the weeks, months in fact, that he spends searching for the perfect ring. He's looked everywhere, botiques to high-end stores. He even tries Tiffany's as a last resort, despite the fact that he knows, _Oh God, does he know,_ that it's not her style, but nothing suits her. Nothing is as unique or beautiful or special as the woman he hopes will wear it. They're interviewing a witness – an elderly lady, owner of an antique shop – when he sees it. The shopkeeper doesn't miss a thing – she meets his gaze when it wanders back to the interview, a raised eyebrow questioning. He nods, imperceptibly gesturing to his partner, and the old woman's eyes crinkle in warmth. Once they close the case, he returns to the store to find it boxed and waiting for him.

"The moment I saw you together, I knew – I've had this ring in my shop for 60 years waiting for the right owner – it belongs to her," the kindly woman said.

He hadn't planned the right way to ask her – he'd been debating between restaurants, champagnes, flowers – when it slipped out one quiet Tuesday morning when she woke him with a kiss, sleepy-eyed, hands tousling his already sleep-mussed hair. His eyes opened to her face above his, and he couldn't wait another second, just grabbed her hand in his, reaching for her face with the other.

"Marry me." He whispered. Right before her lips descended back to his, he felt the breath that was her answer.

"Yes."

Jim will walk her down the aisle on their wedding day, and he'll take Castle aside after the ceremony and gruffly thank him for preventing one murder from becoming two.

"She could not have walked away for anything less." Jim will remind him. He won't need the reminder, because it'll be with him every morning, every night, every day of their lives together. He wouldn't have it any other way.

They'll slip away after the first dance, when her face turns serious and she tells him quietly, _"There's someone I need for you to meet, Castle."_ They'll sneak out the back door of their own wedding reception, stealing away to a quiet cemetery to stand in front of her mother's headstone, and he'll find his breath stolen away all over again as she introduces him to her mom for the first time,

"Mom, this is Richard Castle. My husband." It's the first time since she's started visiting this grave that she doesn't cry – but he does.

There will be a time when their seventeen-year-old daughter is hell on wheels, and he'll tear his hair out trying to figure out what to do. Kate will just laugh and shake her head – _"You weren't so upset when I was telling you about when I went through this phase, Castle". _Momentarily, he'll curse himself for falling in love with this woman, because their daughter is all her: wild child – feral and free.

"She'll come back to you, Castle." Kate reminds him. "Always."

He'll cry as he transcribes their fights, big and small, tears borne not of anger, but as the man who loved her, all of her – spitfire and passion and abandon and finally, hope – in spite of himself.

He blinks back a tear as she reaches for his hand, leading him towards an end and a beginning; she meets his eyes, and he is astounded by the purity of her love. He is the writer, but she is the one who led him to everything the great stories are made of.

Whatever the future may bring, he'll smile as he remembers her words, scrawling them with her favorite pen onto the manuscript of his final novel, 10, 40, or 50 years from now – his final dedication.

_That's what all the great love stories are about, right Kate? Beating the odds._


End file.
